


Heirloom

by HunterPeverell



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1930s, 21st Century, 5+1 Things, Attempted Historical Accuracy, Avengers Family, Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Spoilers, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes and the 21st Century, Canon Compliant, Captain America - Freeform, Captain America was turned into an asshole, Captain America: The First Avenger, Character Study, Feels, Friendship, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, History, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Reunions, Social Media, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Steve Rogers-centric, Team Bonding, The Avengers (2012) Compliant, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-07 16:40:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4270455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HunterPeverell/pseuds/HunterPeverell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 times Steve Rogers lost himself to Captain America and 1 time Steve Rogers showed everyone who he truly was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Inherited a Fight You Were Born to Lose

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by Age of Ultron and these marvelous posts:
> 
> http://assetandmission.tumblr.com/post/119400101825/i-love-the-juxtaposition-here-what-do-you
> 
> http://assetandmission.tumblr.com/post/118963906315/i-love-the-juxtaposition-here-as-the-voiceover
> 
> The title and the chapter names are from Sleeping At Last’s song Heirloom, which I do not own.
> 
> The Comic that will appear later is actually the first comic, printed in March 1941, belongs to Joe Simon and Jack Kirby and Timely Comics. I am not them.
> 
> I ALSO DO NOT OWN CAPTAIN AMERICA OR THE MARVEL UNIVERSE!

*

Steve was a hero.

_“Where are we going?”_

Steve was unsure.

_“The future.”_

Steve was . . . disappearing.

_

_

_

He first noticed it— _really_ noticed it—back in the war. It was early 1944, and Steve had been Captain America for barely six months. Already he was an enormous inspiration to people in America, in Britain, and in France.

They were stopped in a camp in Hungary, trying to help the Netherlands fend off German attacks. The camp they were in was small, with a mixture of British, American, and Dutch. Steve and Bucky had slipped away after the debriefing and the mingling amongst the men to discuss the next HYDRA base they were planning to raid, thirty miles beyond this base sequestered in a small town that was occupied by the Germans. They left the Commandos to entertain the soldiers while Steve found an empty tent and ducked inside.

The tent was filled with crates and one small rickety table. Steve dug out a small folder from under his arm and spread it across the table, unfolding a map and glancing over the blue and red dots scattered about.

Bucky was the one who first noticed;

“Hey, Steve!”

Steve turned around to see Bucky had taken the time to dig into one of the open crates. He had pulled out a magazine of some sort and was looking down at it with a bemused, horrified expression. His curiosity piqued, Steve walked over to him as he asked;

“What?”

“Wha’cher ugly mug doin’ on that comic?”

Steve looked over Bucky’s shoulder, down at the lurid paper splashed with bright yellows and bold reds and dark blacks.

He tugged Bucky over to the table, where the light was better. Bucky went willingly, still in a haze. Under the light of the lamp, Steve looked down, seeing the figures on the page in better detail.

It was him. It was him in an outfit that looked a little more showy and flimsy than the one he wore during his stint with the USO. It was him broader than he _actually_ now was. It was him with a jaw so square it looked like a box had been tacked around his face.

It was him punching . . . Hitler in the face.

“What?” he asked again, forcing his eyes away from the poor rendition of himself to the words splattered across the page;

“CAPTAIN AMERICA” the headline read. Below it, near his shield where a fired bullet was deflected and whizzed off out of sight, read; “SMASHING THRU CAPTAIN AMERICA CAME FACE TO FACE WITH HITLER”.

The final thing Steve saw was a brown haired, masked child saluting in the corner. “ALSO,” read the caption, “CAPTAIN AMERICA’s YOUNG ALLY, BUCKY!”

“Why are you a kid?” Steve asked numbly.

“I don’t know!” Bucky threw the comic down onto the table like it was coated in acid. Steve hesitantly picked it up and flipped to a random page. There was his terrible caricature, punching a . . .

He squinted.

A Japanazi?

Steve looked up at Bucky, who looked rather like he had swallowed the crap Dum Dum called alcohol.

“This has gotta be a joke,” Steve said, dropping the comic and stepping away. The gust of air created by its momentum caused a few pages to turn, but Steve was now afraid to look. “Gabe did art in college. Maybe he did this.”

“Gabe ain’t that cruel,” Bucky said. “He’s not . . . he’s not . . .”

Just then someone poked their head into the tent. “C-Captain America?”

“Yes?” Steve asked politely. He flipped the file closed and shuffled it under the comic, giving the man his best _you can trust me, I’m Captain America_ look.

It was still bizarre, being called ‘Captain America’.

The young man, though he was probably Steve’s age or younger, stepped into the tent. He was a furious beet red and shuffled his feet, avoiding Steve’s eyes. Bucky fell still, watching.

Neither of them was used to the fact that Steve could take care of himself in a fight.

(Though this man didn’t look like he was going to go for a fight. If anything he looked like he was going to faint.)

“M-My name is Private Whitehall, sir, and I-I saw you leave the guys and Bobby dared me ta come over here and, well, I-I wanted to ask, sir, what it was like . . .” words apparently failed him, and he looked away.

“What was what like?” Steve asked gently.

Private Whitehall ducked his head, looking even more uncomfortable. “P-punching Hitler in the face, sir.”

“Oh,” Steve said vaguely, trying to think about what he should say to _that._

Truth’s probably the best, Steve reasoned.

“I haven’t,” he said slowly, gently. “That was just in the comics. And the . . . the war bond sales.”

Private Whitehall’s face fell. “But you’re Captain America. _Everyone_ says you've punched Hitler!"

Bucky cleared his throat. “You heard him, pal,” he said when Private Whitehall glanced over at him. “That’s propaganda, gottit? In _real_ life, Cap's done no such thing."

“Who’re you supposed ta be?” Private Whitehall muttered, glaring balefully at Bucky and seemingly forgetting Steve’s presence for a moment.

“Name’s Bucky,” Bucky said tersely.

Private Whitehall looked at Bucky to the comic lying on the table behind Steve. “No, you’re not.”

“Last time I checked, yeah, I was.”

Private Whitehall was beginning to look angry. “What the hell is this?” he demanded. “You’re supposed ta be heroes! You’re supposed ta win this war for us! You’re not like the comics . . . how else are ya supposed ta win for us?”

Bucky advanced, looking menacing and angry. “Look, pal, I don’t care that you’re not from our unit, but I’ll lay ya flat as anythin’, so why don’t you make tracks an’ leave us _alone?"_

Private Whitehall did.

Steve and Bucky were left in the tent with the terrible comic on the table and the occasional drop of water as the tree outside shed water from the rain last night.

“I have no clue what just happened,” Steve said.

“You and me both,” Bucky grumbled, still looking cross.

Steve looked down at the comic, where Captain America was punching Hitler in the face. “Buck?” he asked.

“Mm? Yeah?” Bucky was still glaring at the tent flap after the unfortunate Private.

“Bucky d’you think that . . . that maybe I’m not Captain America?”

Bucky looked over in surprise. “Wha’ kinda genius question is that? ‘Course you’re Captain America.”

Steve must be imagining the bitter twist to the words.

“No, I mean . . .” Steve floundered for a moment. “I’m . . . him, but also not. ‘Cause that’s not me, Buck.” His eyes traced his cartoon self punching Hitler and tried to see himself.

He couldn’t.

Well, he _would_ punch Hitler in the face (though there were other things he’d rather do) but he _hadn't_ and he—he wouldn’t . . . he wouldn’t take a _child_ into battle. Bucky was a year older than him. Bucky knew war. He was an adult and . . .

“Hey,” Bucky’s soft voice interrupted his thoughts with a soft poke to the back of his head.

Steve looked over at him, clenching his fists.

Bucky was looking less like he wanted to punch someone and more like he did when he saw Steve returning to their apartment beat up.

“Steve,” he said seriously, “This was gonna happen.”

“What?”

“This,” Bucky waved in the direction of the comic. “Captain America is a title, but it’s also an idea. And ideas, Stevie, they’re bigger’n any one person.”

“But Steve Rogers is Captain America,” Steve protested. Bucky’s expression didn’t change. Steve was suddenly less sure. “Isn’t he?”

“No,” Bucky said mournfully. “He’s not.”

Steve leaned against the table, his face pale. “Why not?”

Bucky shrugged. “’S not how it works.”

They were quiet for a long time, each doing their best to not look at the comic still lying half-open on the table.

“But I’m still Steve to you, right?” Steve asked quietly.

Bucky looked at Steve, and his eyes softened into that look Steve could never understand.

“Yeah pal,” Bucky’s soft voice was nearly lost in the silence, but Steve felt them wash over him like a balm. “Yeah, I’ll always see you.”


	2. You Try Your Hardest to Leave the Past Alone

*

Steve was adrift.

_“A symbol to the Nation. A hero to the world. The story of Captain America is one of honor, bravery, and sacrifice.”_

Steve was alone.

_“Everyone’s favorite war hero, Captain America!”_

Steve was . . . disappearing.

_

_

_

Steve woke to _wrong wrong wrong wrong WRONG._

The baseball game was one he had been to. They’d never replay one, not when there were always more going on. But Steve _remembered_ that game. Bucky had managed to scrounge up enough money for them to go. They were in the midst of a mass of people, more than Steve had ever seen in one place. Bucky was cheering, his face lit up with happiness and glee and Steve had had to force away the small bubble of . . .

Well. He knew this game and he knew that they would never, _never_ replay it. 

The woman who greeted him with a soft smile and a “Good morning . . . or should I say afternoon,” was _wrong_. Her hair was loose, not pulled up as is standard. Her tie was a man’s tie—it was too long and too broad to be a woman’s . . .

And that’s all he needs to know.

Something is wrong.

Then he’s running. Then he’s stopped. Then he’s _looking_ and the future is nothing like what he expected, and when the man with the eye patch brings him back to the SHIELD facility, he goes quietly and thoughtfully.

“I had to know, Captain, what you’d do,” Fury said once Steve was sat in a comfortable room that was definitely not fake-40s. Steve was given a cup of water and a bowl of fruit, but he touched neither.

“You had to know who came outta that ice,” Steve said, much more calmly than he felt.

“Well, yes,” Fury said, inclining his head. “You could have been insane or had other mental degradation. I had to know if you were firing on all cylinders.”

“I get it,” Steve said. “I do.”

He didn’t know what to say, and Fury seemed content to nurse his coffee while subjecting Steve to an intense stare. Steve wanted to shift uncomfortably, but he had never backed down and he wasn’t about to stop now.

“Captain Rogers,” Fury said finally, seemingly satisfied with his examination. “I can offer you full use of SHIELD’s history books as well as sessions to get you comfortable with the future. Here you would not have to worry about money or wasting people’s time—I’m Director, and as Director I can bring you the best of anything you need.”

“Why would you?” Steve asked.

Fury’s lips twitched. “Who wouldn’t jump at a chance to help Captain America?” he asked wryly. 

Steve stilled.

Not _Steve Rogers_. Fury and SHIELD would help _Captain America_.

“But that’s not the real reason, is it, sir?” he asked instead.

Fury shrugged slightly. “I was hoping that after your adjustments you’d be willing to get back in the field, but we’ll see how everything goes.”

_Of course._

Of course that’s what Fury wanted. What SHIELD wanted. What the world wanted.

They wanted Captain America.

“We’ll see, sir,” Steve forced out and wanted to scream.

Fury, however, seemed satisfied and stood to leave, leaving his half-finished coffee on the table. Steve stood to follow him, and Fury led him back to a small room a few corridors down. The hallways seemed empty, but Steve had just (to him) left a war zone and he knew they were being watched, and being watched closely.

“Agent Allen, the Agent who was with you when you woke up, is fine if you were wondering,” Fury said, his good eye sliding over to Steve as if measuring his reaction.

“Good,” Steve said. “I apologize if I scared her, sir. I hope I didn’t leave too bad of an impression.”

“You didn’t,” Fury said, pleased for some reason Steve couldn’t understand. They stopped at the small room and Fury opened it. Inside there was a table with two chairs, a couch that looked more expensive than anything Steve had ever seen (and he tried not to think about how much money had gone into making such a . . . realistic set of a hospital room in his . . . time). There was a simple stove that still looked more expensive than the one he and Bucky had owned and a big ice box sitting next to that. There was another door near the kitchen area that, presumably, led to a bedroom.

There was a window that looked into a back alleyway, and Steve could hear the honking of horns and the tinny twang of unfamiliar music in the distance.

It was bigger than any apartment he and Bucky had owned.

Fury watched him take in the room. Once he was satisfied that Steve had had enough time to look around, he cleared his throat.

Steve’s eyes jumped to him. “Sir?”

“You can get some sleep if you want, Captain. You can also fix yourself a meal, or a meal can be brought up to you.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Steve said. “I’ve slept for long enough, apparently. What I’d like is for some of my questions to be answered.”

Fury nodded like he had expected that. “Then let me introduce you to Agent Stein.”

Into the room came a man in his late fifties. A bag was slung over his shoulder, filled with bulges that looked square and bookish. His brown hair was greying, though his dark eyes were sharp and alert.

“Captain Rogers,” he greeted in a strong voice. He held out a hand, and Steve took it while trying not to think about the fact that he was, technically, older than this man.

“Pleasure,” Steve said.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Fury excused himself and headed out the door, his long black coat swishing behind him softly. The door closed after him.

Stein moved over to the table and sat down. Each of his movements were slow and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world. Steve sat across from him warily.

“So,” Stein said, setting his leather bag on the table top and looking at Steve. “Where would you like to begin?”

“We won,” Steve said. “Didn’t we.”

Stein inclined his head. “We did,” he said. “The war in Europe ended May 8th, 1945 while the Pacific war ended in August of 1945, on the 15th.”

Steve nodded. “What happened to the countries?”

“Germany is strong,” Stein said. “And one of our good allies today.”

“Good,” Steve murmured.

“Japan is also our ally. Hitler committed suicide on April 30th, 1945, though he had long descended into madness.”

“He never answered for his crimes,” Steve said. A comic book page floated behind his eyes, lurid yellow and bold red and dark black and CAPTAIN AMERICA.

“No, he did not,” Stein said, watching Steve carefully.

Steve took a deep breath. “What happened to the Commandos? To Agent Carter? To Stark?”

Stein nodded once. “The Commandos each became activists for various causes. Private Dugan stayed in Europe until 1947, where he returned to marry his sweetheart and help the countries recover from the effects of the war. Private Jones left the war after you went . . . missing. He became an enormous supporter of the Civil Rights Movement that took place in the 60s. Corporal Mortia remained furious at the Japanese American internment and led several protests after he returned from the war. Lieutenant Falsworth left at the same time as Private Jones, and he helped his country recover from the shock of the war. He donated most of the money he earned to helping rebuild schools. Finally, Corporal Dernier returned to France and helped the Jewish people settle down. In 1953 he joined Stark Industries and acted as liaison between SI and France. They all remained close until their dying day.”

“So they’re all dead, then?” Steve asked quietly.

“I’m afraid so, Captain,” Stein said gently. “I am sorry for your loss.”

Steve nodded, but didn’t look at Stein.

Stein cleared his throat. “Agent Carter stayed with the SSR until she, Stark, and Philips founded SHIELD in 1947.”

Steve looked up sharply. “SHIELD is the SSR?”

Stein nodded. “What’s it’s become, I should say.”

Steve leaned back against his chair. “Huh,” he said. “What happened to . . . them?”

“Phillips died a natural death in 1963 at the age of eighty-five. Howard Stark died in a motor vehicular accident in 1983, leaving his son, Anthony Stark, head of Stark Industries when Anthony turned twenty-one. He was seventy-three. Agent Carter is still alive, living in Washington D.C.”

“She’s still alive?” Steve asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Yes,” Stein said, not at all ruffled at having to repeat himself. “She’s currently ninety years old, Captain.”

“Does she know I’ve been found?”

“No,” Stein said. “We didn’t want to tell her unless we were sure you were . . . alright.”

“But you are going to tell her, aren’t you?”

“If that’s what you want, Captain, then I’m sure we can arrange it.”

Steve’s throat felt dry. “I would.”

Stein nodded. “Then I’ll see what I can do. I think I’ve given you enough information today, Captain, but is there anything else you’d like to know?”

Steve looked down at his hand, which were folded in his lap. “Did they ever . . .” his voice died, but he cleared it and looked up, staring Stein straight in the eye. “Did they ever find Sargent Barnes’ body?”

“No,” Stein said, his expression sympathetic. “No, they never did. He is still officially labeled MIA.”

Steve looked away. “Thank you, Agent Stein.”

“Of course,” Stein said, standing up. “I’ll leave these books here for you to read, should you so choose.”

With that, he left. Steve sat there in silence for a long time, until the windows darkened.

Before he went into the bedroom, he glanced inside the bag. There were history books, all on the War and the aftermath.

He made a mental note to ask for _The Hobbit._

It had been Bucky’s favorite.

_

That was how his days passed, in a haze of learning and discovering and questions. Two weeks after he returned, he began learning about electronics and the Internet.

Stein encouraged him to come to terms with who he (or Captain America, at least) had become, warning him that it might not be what he had left behind. He needed to be prepared for how the world would _actually_ see him.

Steve did so on a sunny Sunday afternoon.

He wanted to bury himself back in the ice once he was done.

Captain America supported things he would _never_ support. Captain America said things he would _never_ say. Captain America did things he would _never_ do.

Captain America was against woman’s rights.

Captain America was against abolishing racism.

Captain America was against raising the minimum wage.

Captain America was against homosexuality.

(No one had even brought that _up_. When he asked about it later, he was treated to a conversation that essentially told him he needed to flex with the times, that the world was more open than it was in his day, and that it wasn’t a bad thing to be attracted to the same sex . . .)

(He wondered if anyone knew where he had grown up, and that he saw his first same-sex couple when he was four years old and his mama deemed him fit enough to leave their apartment and the little lot outside their apartment where he used to play.)

(He wondered if any of the SHIELD agents actually knew who Steve Rogers was.)

(He suspected the answer was no.)

And that was when Steve Rogers began to fade in earnest.

Because no one in his familiar alien world cared about the man behind the shield. No one cared about Steve Rogers.

Captain America was the one they wanted.

And no one was left to care about the man he once was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The period stuff from the scene where he woke up in was taken from this post: 
> 
> http://queenofallthenerds.tumblr.com/post/103072159734/marguerite26-kk-maker-2spoopy5you
> 
> As for the ages of Phillips and Howard . . . I went to IMDB and figured out their ages in 2011, when the first movie came out, and said that their ages then were the age their characters were in 1943. Then I calculated their ages for when they 'died'. Hope no one minds.
> 
> Thank you for reading--your comments are so very much appreciated.


	3. You Memorize Those Unscripted Lines

*

Steve was scared.

_“A hero? Like you? You’re a laboratory experiment, Rogers. Everything special about you came out of a bottle.”_

Steve was homeless.

_“We are not soldiers!”_

Steve was . . . disappearing.

_

_

_

“I’d sit this one out, Cap.” Natasha was in the pilot seat, flipping a few switches. Her red hair was tossed over her shoulder as she looked over at him seriously.

“I don’t see how I can,” Steve said as he buckled on a parachute.

“These guys come from legend, they’re basically gods.”

“There’s only one God, ma’am, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t dress like that.”

It doesn’t hit him until he’s falling through the air that he just said something like . . . that.

He _does_ believe in God. It’s something that his mother made sure he did; go to Church every Sunday, say his prayers, Confess his Sins . . .

He believes. He’s done some reading, likes the evolution idea and likes the idea that evolution could have happened, and that God’s days could be much, _much_ longer than theirs, so science could fit in with everything.

He was, after all, created from science. Seems only right he gives it its due share.

So yeah, he believes.

But, well, he also believes God must have left this world a long time ago.

He feels guilty every time he thinks it, but his mama also told him to tell the truth, and if that’s what he thought, then he wasn’t going to lie about it. God left him a long, long time ago.

The first time Steve thought that was when he looked at Bucky, who was seventeen while Steve was sixteen. 

Steve’s mama had just died, and so Bucky left his folks and struck out into the world, pulling Steve along behind him, until they settled down and got jobs. Steve felt terrible that Bucky was stuck with him, but each time he brought it up Bucky assured him that he was okay with this, that there was no place he’d rather be.

A few months after the funeral, Steve saw Bucky was kissing Marie Joy Saunders on their couch when Steve was supposed to be asleep. Steve needed water, and he poked his head out to see . . . that . . . and had to look away, his face burning.

It wasn’t Marie Joy he was looking at.

He thought that if God had stayed, He was the one who made sure that that kind of thing didn’t happen.

Then he felt terrible and prayed long into the night like his mama told him to.

It wasn’t as though he didn’t know about men liking men—he grew up in _Brooklyn_ , for all that was Holy. He saw men going away at it with each other down at the docks, outside of the speakeasies, in the alleyway behind their apartment.

He _knew_. But Pastor Segal told him it was against God, but if God was watching over him then why would He let Steve feel . . . this?

Steve didn’t consider it wrong, not if God didn’t care enough to watch over them. If it made them happy, then who was he to interfere?

He never told Bucky.

The second time was in the war, when Steve saw the prisoners of the 107th in the cages. They were starving and weary and so, so tired.

He found Bucky strapped to a table, and for one heart-wrenching moment Bucky didn’t recognize him. They got out of there through fire and smoke and explosions and _“You don’t have one of those, do you?”_

They walked back through enemy territory Steve listened to the men and listened to what they told each other, the horrors that they saw and that were done to them. Steve stared out of the corner of his eyes as Bucky’s mouth tightened and his eyes darkened and knew that his friend was listening, too.

What had they done to these men? What kind of monsters could they be to have torn his best friend apart and morphed into a new person? How could anyone stand for this?

What kind of God could let this happen to good people? To test them? To force them to prove their worth?

Wasn’t He supposed to be loving?

But Steve forced that out of his mind in the wake of the soldier’s exhaustion and desperation.

The last time he thought God had left him was when he awoke after—

_pain-ice-fear-pain-burning-greif-helpless-rage-pain-ice-cold-cold-cold-COLD . . ._

—putting the plane down into the Artic and found himself on an alien world. 

Well, it was his world. It _was_. It was his New York and his Brooklyn and his Nation . . . 

. . . but it wasn’t.

The technology, the people, the customs, the politics, the attitude. It was all—it was _different_. Not in a _bad_ way, necessarily, just. Just. It wasn’t what he was used to.

Obviously.

He watched the team that Fury hoped would be the Avengers come together—Stark in Germany, Thor from the storm, Natasha with a quirk of her eyebrow, Banner with his quiet demeanor . . .

He watched them around him.

Natasha gave nothing away, but he saw Banner flounder for a safe topic and guessed that the man was fairly liberal—he’s had several people edge around him because of what Captain America believes in. But Steve tries to be nice, tries to be kind, and tries to get them to _see_ . . .

And he thinks he makes a breakthrough. When Loki’s earth trial was over and done with, he thinks the people—the Avengers, they were a team for a time—looked at him differently. Less like he was what Captain America was turned into and more like the Captain America Steve remembers.

They split before Steve can talk more to his new teammates, so Steve doesn’t know if he’s really changed their minds. He hopes he has, never mind the little time they spent together.

It’s after that, after the brief reprieve with the team that the hounds of the media and the officials of SHIELD descend upon him.

No one wants to see him, that’s the thing. No one wants to see Steve Rogers when Steve Rogers is just a normal person, hardly worth noting at all except for the person he would become.

Stein left him with a copy of Captain America’s history a few days after he went searching for the Captain on the Internet, and he saw there was only one chapter at the very beginning about little Steven Rogers, who now seemed to only exist to _become_ Captain America.

It was like no one was actually interested in Steve Rogers, except for the fact that he became the most famous superhero in existence. He _became_ Captain America to . . . to follow Bucky. To war, so that Bucky wouldn’t be alone.

To make sure that he gave the world the biggest ‘Fuck you’ that he could. To show that Bucky was _right_ when he placed his trust again and again and _again_ into weak little Stevie Rogers who was nothing but trouble. He wanted to show that that weak kid could fight with the best of them and could do what everyone else did—be a hero in their own right.

He never wanted to be a hero, much less a superhero. He just wanted to be like everyone else. He just wanted to show that he could _be as good_.

Instead he became _better_ and people _still_ didn’t see the asthmatic boy who just wanted to be worthy of his best friend’s faith. To show his friend—his _family_ —that he was worth _something_.

Now, apparently, he was worth millions and it meant _nothing_ to him because _Bucky wasn’t here to see it._

He was in a world where no one saw _him._

And so when he spoke to Natasha on the quinjet, his head was filled with _the greatest hero who ever lived_ and _a symbol to the nation_ and _Captain America: a story of sacrifice and bravery._

(A poster where a blond kid with an unusually strong jaw stood in front of a transparent, faded silhouette of Captain America, shield in hand, and watched on as two other meaty, thickset kids kicked a small twiggy boy as he was down. A teacher was drawn in the background, oblivious to what was going on behind him. The title on the poster asked in bold letters; WHAT WOULD CAPTAIN AMERICA DO?

_Fight them with two swinging fists and a snarl_ , Steve thought, though he was _almost_ sure that’s _not_ what the poster was telling kids to do.)

So he told her what Captain America would say.

Steve Rogers, perhaps, would have said; “I won’t leave Stark facing two gods alone, no matter how much I want to punch him in the face,” or “You don’t leave allies behind.”

But Captain America stood for the American Ideal, and the American Ideal was united under one God and . . .

Steve didn’t know what to do. Choose Steve Rogers, who no one wanted, or Captain America, who _everyone_ wanted?

The truth or the fiction?

The real or the fake?

The unwanted or the wanted?

Then Stark was in his face and angry and pissed and Steve couldn’t hold back and got into _his_ face. He forgot, for a moment, that he was no longer five-foot-four and 95 pounds and instead was Captain America’s six-foot-two 240 pounds. He forgot that the stance he took against bullies almost twice his size that made him look quite pathetic and stubborn now looked menacing and large.

He just . . . forgot.

It wasn’t until after the battle that he really calmed down and took stock of what he had done.

Well, after he got over the _aliens_ part. That was a bit distracting.

He had been dealing with people since he woke up who only saw . . . Captain America, the conservative asshole who bloomed in the 70s to support ideas and ideals he never would and who . . .

No one would understand because no one had ever met _him_. No one _wanted_ to meet him.

No one wanted to know Steve Rogers.

He was _unwanted_.

(Just like always.)

He was alone in this world, in this life, because everyone (Bucky, and maybe Peggy somewhat but they had only known each other for two years before the _ice cold pain no Bucky!_ . . .) who knew Steve was dead and everyone who knew Captain/Steve was also dead and now there was only the Captain left, and so who was . . .

Who was he?

Steve didn’t know, anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:  
> The first scene, where Nat is telling Steve to sit it out and Steve replies with something about God, was inspired by the first three paragraphs of this article: http://www.scriptmag.com/features/steve-rogers-man-time-captain-america-winter-soldier
> 
> Also, this: http://fireboltinsky4.tumblr.com/post/121481725751/consulting-assassin-skinny-steve-was-so-cute  
> Just this.


	4. You are so Much More Than What I’ve Become

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any usernames that hold any resemblance towards actually people/accounts is entirely on accident.

*

Steve was dying.

_“And I tried to throw myself back in, follow orders, serve . . . It’s just not the same.”_

Steve was forgotten.

_“You must miss the good old days, huh?”_

Steve was . . . disappearing.

_

_

_

 

Bucky.

Bucky.

_Bucky._

_BUCKY._

There was little else on his mind these days. Steve wheeled around and around, thinking and thinking and thinking and wishing and hoping and . . . 

Bucky was his best friend. They met when Steve was four and Bucky was five. They grew up side by side, courtesy of the fact that they lived on the same block. Bucky became his best friend after he defended Steve in a fight was Steve was six and Bucky was seven and they were inseparable until Bucky went into the army.

When Steve thought of Bucky, he thought of a soft voice singing along to an old radio, the clatter of clumsy feet as Bucky swayed to music, which was sometimes emanating from the radio, but most times just followed a tune inside Bucky’s head. Bucky was stormy blue eyes alight with laughter, lips spread in a cocky grin, a serious expression that was never full of _pity_ or _disgust_ but with _understanding._

Bucky was the one person Steve cared for more than anyone else.

Now Bucky was—

_Alive, damaged, fearful, terrorized, tortured, brainwashed, frozen, alive, alive, ALIVE_

—and Steve didn’t know what to think, didn’t know how to act, only knew that he had to _follow him ‘til the end of the line_ and Sam volunteered to come with him and Steve couldn’t be more grateful . . .

After months of searching, they called it off and returned to New York, where Steve hoped beyond hope Bucky would return to talk to Steve, to _let him in._

That was when Natasha and Stark—Tony, he insisted—showed up one night with maps and files on HYDRA bases and the proposition to destroy HYDRA and retrieve the Tesseract, which had fallen into their hands and was the reason Thor returned to Earth again.

“And we can look for your boyfriend, if you want.” St—Tony said with a dismissive tone in his voice though his eyes were sharp.

“It wasn’t like that,” Steve said quietly. Tony blithely waved away his comment with a knowing smirk and proceeded into the room past Steve.

Natasha, however, caught the bur of pain in his voice and glanced sadly at him, her face filled with gentle understanding.

After the fiasco in D.C., Natasha had been letting Steve see more of who _she_ was—the woman behind the masks who was just now waking up and discovering herself. Steve couldn’t be happier for her. In return, he tried to show her a bit of the Steve Rogers she glimpsed in the van after he realized Bucky was alive, the Steve Rogers who snarked back and forth with her, who at heart was still _him_ , still five-foot-four and full of a furious attitude that got him beat up every few days.

He suspected Natasha saw more of who Steve Rogers was—or had been—than she let on.

But no one else saw that. Steve hadn’t actually seen the other Avengers since New York except Natasha and Tony. Thor was, of course, on Asgard while Bann—Bruce—split his time squirreled away in Tony’s tower and remote countries Steve hadn’t actually heard of before. Barton was rarely available, either on missions or ‘farming’, as Fury once called it with veiled amusement.

So Steve was surrounded by people who knew Captain America, but not Steve. He had the Avengers, who had perhaps glimpsed the man behind the shield, but they were scattered in the wind.

So hardly anyone saw Steve. He was lucky Natasha did. He was lucky—hell, he was lucky _anyone_ wanted to see little Stevie Rogers, the punk from Brooklyn who just wanted to show the world that he was _worth_ something.

“You could just be Steve,” Natasha said once Tony had left. She seated herself at the small table while Steve cooked them both tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches.

“You think they’d care?” Steve asked, throwing her a glance.

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “The Steve Rogers I’ve been seeing is pretty awesome, Steve. I think they’d like him a lot better than Captain America.”

Steve shrugged, trying not to look uncomfortable. He suspected he failed miserably.

“And here I thought you didn’t have a mask,” Natasha said with a small smiled. “I thought I was the one playing all the roles, here.”

“It wasn’t—I didn’t mean . . .” Steve trailed off and hunched his shoulders in, wishing he could shrink back to the man he was, because that’s how he still saw himself, suspected that’s how he’d _always_ see himself.

“Didn’t mean what, Steve?” Natasha asked gently.

Steve looked up for a moment before slipping the spatula under the grilled cheese and flipping it onto a plate, which he passed to Natasha. She took it silently, and watched him serenely as he did slid his own sandwich onto his own plate. He ladled a few spoonfuls of soup into the awaiting cups and settled himself down across from her.

“I didn’t mean to become . . . him,” Steve said, trying to describe the icon Captain America was. “I did a whole lotta reading, Nat, when I first woke up and Captain America has become someone _I_ wouldn’t want to meet, and everyone was treating me like what he wanted was what I wanted and I . . .”

“You could have said something,” Natasha said.

Steve snorted. “No one wants to know Steve Rogers,” he said flatly. “Not the public,” he amended after Natasha raised an eyebrow. “I read books and watch documentaries and it’s like the entire point of Steve Rogers’ life was to become this super soldier and they don’t even . . .”

He didn’t know how to finish that thought. Didn’t know how to express to Natasha that Steve Rogers _wasn’t Captain America._

“They never thought to look at Steve Rogers.” Natasha supplied.

Steve nodded, bending his head. His dinner was untouched, and so he tore off a chunk of the sandwich and put it in his mouth. Once he was done chewing, he kept looking down.

“Did you know I grew up a poor section of Brooklyn?” he asked quietly. Natasha said nothing, letting him speak at his own pace. “Most of the time I went hungry, which was probably why I was so skinny and short—malnutrition and constant health problems weren’t something we actually had the money to deal with, back then. My dad died with the war, so my mom raised me alone. She was fortunate enough to have a job and keep a job, but a lotta people weren’t so lucky. My mom, at least, could afford some medicine when I got sick. Her job as a nurse helped her with that.”

He took a sip of the soup, but tasted nothing as it went down his throat.

“I just,” he said. Stopped. Looked up at Natasha with tired eyes and a defeated slump to his shoulders. “I just want to be me,” he said. “The boy who grew up seeing men kissing men and didn’t think twice about it, not the . . . the me everyone thinks I am who would cringe at such an _unholy act._ ”

Natasha sighed. “I don’t think people are ever going to see you, Steve,” she said gently. “They all want to see the War hero.”

_“This was gonna happen.”_ Bucky’s ghost whispered in his ear. Steve repressed a shiver.

“I know,” Steve said. “Who do you think I’ve been trying to be?”

“Someone you’re not,” Natasha said simply, leaning back and popping some crumpled grilled cheese into her mouth.

Steve sighed, and wished he could go back to sleep in the ice, where he hadn’t _worried_ about anything.

“Yeah,” Steve finally said. “But who else can I be?”

“I’m liking Steve Rogers,” Natasha said. “He seems like a pretty swell guy.”

“But who is that?” Steve asked. “I’m starting to forget who he was.”

Natasha fell silent, unable to give him advice. After all; she had always been a part of the Red Room. For her, there was no _before_ for her before the covers and the lying that became her life took over.

But Steve appreciated the effort.

*

The little bit of peace Natasha had been able to grace him with shattered the next day as he sat in Tony’s workshop, listening to Tony babble over the music and the hum of machinery. He was idly scrolling through a message board someone had recommended him. It was feedback to the Avengers from the public, and Steve read the thoughts people had posted, the support and the questions and the condemnations.

The page had started after New York, but had quickly spawned into a forum that no longer appealed directly to the Avengers. Instead, it was where the people who followed the Avenger’s going-ons could talk and discuss current events and perhaps have the odd Avenger browsing the page comment on it.

Steve liked the page. There were some interesting things discussed.

“Trust me,” Tony was saying as he removed the straps of Steve’s shield, “This’ll be awesome.”

“What will be?” Steve asked without looking up from his phone.

“So,” Tony said, “I’ve watched you throw this thing in almost unbelievable angles at insane speeds and catch it with, like, one hand.”

“Yeah,” Steve said slowly, lifting his eyes to look at Tony, who was still engrossed in his work.

“So there are a couple of times where you _can’t_ catch it, or you throw it wrong, or _something_ and honestly the best answer I can think of is to make this thing like Thor’s hammer.”

“What—it always returns to me?”

“And Bingo was his name-o!” Tony crowed. “With this awesome gauntlet I’ll mesh into your uniform, you can take out HYDRA goons without fear that your handy-dandy Frisbee will abandon you in your time of need.”

Steve eyed the tangled pile of wires and metal with a dubious eye. “Can you do that?” he asked.

“He asks _me_ that, honestly,” Tony muttered under his breath as he removed the last strap. Steve mentally bid it farewell as Tony cast it casually over his head.

“Could you make a few extra?” Steve asked. “In case, I mean. I can pay you.”

Tony waved his hand vaguely. “I’m a billionaire, Rogers. I don’t need you to _pay_ me for such petty little things like, oh right, _the stuff I already have in my workshop._ ”

Steve subsided, though he itched to dig out his wallet and pass Tony a few bills that wouldn’t, obviously, even _begin_ to cover the cost, but would help sooth Steve’s guilt.

(He was never short of cash because the first thing he had done after getting out of SHIELD in 2011 was remove a large portion of the money from the bank it had been stored in and hide it in various parts of his room.)

(What people don’t understand or have forgotten about was that he was raised in the middle of the Great Depression, and to him even a dollar was a luxury he had never had before. He didn’t trust banks, like every other person he’d known, and so even in this new world he wasn’t going to take any chances.)

(He’d read about the recession in 2008. Two crashes—well, one crash and one almost-crash—in less than a century? Not a good track record.)

(Steve was keeping his money _safe_.)

“Sure, sure,” Tony said. “Whatever you want, Cap. I can make a few extras, you can not pay me, we’ll all be happy.”

“Thank you, Tony,” Steve said, glancing down at his screen again and scrolling past a new comment . . .

**Amycannnann1: Guys, Florida just voted 4 gay rights—victory!!!**

**Bluecat_whatsit2u: YES!!!!**

**Grokenblork: We r getting there, ppl.**

**AngryAmerican: Cap America would be disappointed in all of this.**

It was the last one that got him, obviously.

“Hey, Cap?” Tony’s voice was distant, garbled, and Steve _couldn’t hear_ and he needed his asthma cigs because he _couldn’t breathe . . ._

_Captain America would be disappointed._

“Oh Captain?”

_Disappointed._

“Earth of good ol’ America!”

_Would be disappointed . . ._

“ROGERS!” a voice hollered, and Steve snapped to attention to see Tony standing in front of him, frowning, shield still resting on the table behind him.

“You okay?” the billionaire asked with a tone that meant he already knew the answer. “You zoned out for a bit there.”

“I’m fine,” Steve managed. “I’m gonna go get something to eat.”

“Pick me up something,” Tony ordered. “It’s been a while since I ate. I think. JARVIS?”

“It’s been eight hours since you last ate, sir, despite my numerous reminders.” The computerized voice said with an air of long-suffering exasperation.

“Chinese sound good?” Steve asked in a daze. He hardly heard Tony’s reply, already on his way out.

He made it as far as the alley next to the Chinese place before he sank down, phone still clenched in his fist. He didn’t wonder if it had broken yet. He didn’t wonder if someone had responded to that comment yet.

He didn’t wonder.

He did, however, wonder if Bucky was reading those kinds of things out there as he tried to make sense of his memories. Or, perhaps, he didn’t care about the memories. Perhaps the Winter Soldier was all Steve was going to get.

But if Bucky _was_ reading these things . . .

What must he think of Steve? Of Captain America? Of the old Bucky, who had supposedly stood by all this without blinking an eye?

Steve closed his eyes and screamed into his fist in the dirt back alleyway with a lump in his chest and a pain behind his eyes.

_This isn’t how it’s supposed to be_ , he thought miserably before he got up and brushed off his clothes.

Captain America, after, didn’t break down.

He just kept moving forward.

And Steve didn’t know what else to do.


	5. You Remind Me of Who I Could Have Been

*

Steve was fading.

_“Language!”_

Steve was lost.

_“It just slipped out.”_

Steve was . . . disappearing.

_

_

_

 

Steve burned each time he heard one of his team members rib him about the whole ‘language’ thing. He appreciated the fact that they were comfortable enough with him to tease him—tease Captain America, the asshole who dominated the conservative ideals for the last few decades—but, really, he was most upset with himself for . . . for letting it slip out.

But he smiled and laughed and rolled his eyes and tried to tell himself that _they didn’t really mean any of it. They were his_ friends . . .

Because they were. Over the last few months, this mismatched team of misfits had somehow changed from acquaintances to friends in a matter of months. Steve had never been happier and lonelier than in those last few months.

Sam was there, and Steve liked talking to Sam. Bruce and Clint had opened up almost as soon as they all got back together, and Steve enjoyed bantering with Clint and Natasha and listening to Bruce talk about the places he’d been to and the people he had met.

He had listened to Natasha all those months ago when they had sat over tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, and he had been trying to let little Stevie Rogers leak out more and more over the last few months.

It was little things, at first, because he had to practice.

He’d respond to a question how he wanted to—not how Captain America _should_. “You must miss the good old days” became “sometimes. Not very much, anymore.” “What’s it like, being in this time?” became “a good different.” “What’s your stance on ____?” became “why should I care? It’s their life.” (That question usually came in the form of ‘abortion’ or ‘same sex marriage’.)

He’d eat the foods Steve Rogers wanted to eat (which ended up being a ridiculous amount of French fries and apples, but oh well). Clint raises an eyebrow when Steve tells him he doesn't _want_ to go to the burger joint down the street. He’s rather in the mood for that shop a few streets over that sells Fish ‘n’ Chips that are _to die for._

(Afterwards, Clint swore that would become his go-to restaurant and slapped Steve on the back, eyes happy and stance relaxed. Steve felt like it was a win—Clint had, after that, joined Natasha in her crusade to find a date. Steve watched in amusement as Clint suggested everything from gardening senior citizens to rock ‘n’ rolling skateboarders.)

He’d listen to the music Steve Rogers wanted to listen to—not the 30s and 40s music exclusively, but music he wanted to. He liked pop music—the 30s and 40s stuff _was_ pop, back when he lived in that time. It was the ‘popular’ music of his time. And he _liked_ pop so he began to listen to it more and more. He’d gotten a smile from Natasha when she had walked in on him rocking out to Fall Out Boy as he did the dishes.

He said the words he wanted to—Steve picked up on the modern day slang fast, but since everyone wanted an adorable Captain America who still used words like ‘dame’ (even if it outwardly pissed them off because women aren’t _called_ that anymore Captain, didn’t you know? We’re _progressive_ ) that’s what he had been using for the last few years. Tony stopped dead in his tracks when Steve, in response to something Tony said, said ‘word’ and kept reading his book. When Tony did not continue walking, Steve glanced up, confused.

“What?” he asked.

Tony shook himself, said; “Never mind,” and left.

They went and raided the last HYDRA base they knew about, in Sokovia. Steve fought along with his team—a team he was just beginning to consider his friends—when a little bit of Cap slipped out; “Language!”

There was discussion, and Steve prayed for them to _ignore it ignore it ignore it please just ignore it_ but Tony pointed it out, and Steve winced and said; “It just slipped out.”

Because it did, and he was fighting so hard to figure out who Steve was again, but Captain America kept bleeding through and _ruining it_ and . . .

“Did you tell everyone about that?”

and . . .

“But it’s home, y’know?”

and . . .

“I got nothing planned for tomorrow night,”

and . . .

“Steve?”

Steve looked up at Natasha’s soft voice. “Yeah?”

She sat down heavily next to him. Surveyed the wreckage of the town. Looked up at the blue sky. Observed the people weeping and laughing and screaming. Glanced over at him.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Talk about what?”

She looked straight ahead. “The Cap’s made more of an appearance these last few days. Stress getting to you?”

“No,” Steve said immediately, and then winced. Hunkered down into himself. “Yes,” he said quietly, so quietly he was afraid Natasha hadn’t heard him.

But her hand found his, and she squeezed gently. He glanced up at her, and her face was softer than he had ever seen.

“After this,” she said, “Let’s go to that little restaurant. The one that makes that apple pie that is _delightful_.”

“Yeah,” Steve said, throat clogging up. “Yeah, that sounds awesome.”

_

Steve was _recovering._

The issue, though, was that Steve Rogers had always defined himself around _Bucky_. Bucky was the kid who got him out of scraps and after Steve’s mom died when he was sixteen, Bucky became the only person Steve considered _family._

But he got the fact that he wasn’t Bucky’s only family, like Bucky was for him. He got the fact that Bucky had three sisters and a mother and a father and a string of girlfriends that could loop around their block three times and some pals down at the docks who were healthier than Steve and didn’t need constant looking after like _little weak Stevie._

So it was all fine and good to eat the food he wanted to eat and listen to the music he wanted to listen to and say the words he wanted to, but those were just on the surface; trivial things that didn’t, in fact, truly matter.

Steve doesn’t know who Steve is because he’s _Steve._

A person does not look at themselves and accurately list their qualities—anyone can say ‘I’m loyal’ or ‘I’m brave’ or ‘I’m smart’ or ‘I’m ambitious’. But to truly _describe_ oneself is nearly impossible. You just can’t. No one really _knows_ who they are. They rely on the people around them to define who they are. A person acts differently around different people. Steve acts differently around Natasha than he does around Bruce. It's just something people do, and for years and years and _years_ there was only Bucky he felt he was truly _Steve_ around. 

He became who he was because of the people he loves, and Steve . . . well, the only two people Steve had truly, utterly, deeply cared for from 1918 to 1943 were his ma and Bucky.

His ma was well and truly dead (though he might actually burn the world if he finds out that, somehow, HYDRA got to her and turned her into a sickly brainwashed assassin—Sarah Rogers had not died young and healthy, after all. But he knew, logically, that that couldn’t happen because she had died in 1937, before Captain America and Steve Rogers came together like an ill-fitting glove), and while Steve missed her, he had put her ghost to rest a long, long time ago.

Bucky’s ghost . . . not so much.

So he didn’t know if he could be Steve Rogers again without Bucky around to help him.

And yes, he got that Bucky was never going to be the same again. He got the fact that while James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes had been alive for twenty-seven years; the Winter Soldier had been around for _seventy_. He got the fact that the Winter Soldier was going to be present more because Bucky had _been_ the Winter Soldier for longer. He got that most of the memories that were coming back (they had to be coming back, they _had_ to be) were going to be about blood and death and _pull the trigger_ because even Bucky Barnes had been a killer; the war had made killers of them all.

But Steve wasn’t going to be little Stevie Rogers, either.

He was right when he told Tony that someone else had come out of that ice; it wasn’t the man who enlisted six times, half because he wanted to be like everyone else and half because he didn’t want to let Bucky go to his death alone. He wasn’t the war hero, either. The war was . . . it _was_ over. He knew the dates. The war was finished months after he had . . . died.

He, instead, was Steve Rogers trying to fill a role that both repulsed him and dragged him in like a fish on a hook. Instead he was Steve Rogers, lost without anyone he _loved_. Instead he was Steve Rogers who, in the turbulence of familiar alien worlds and decades of his name morphing into someone he’s _not_ , lost himself.

He realizes that, now. He's lost. He's been lost ever since he joined the war.

The last and final time Steve Rogers felt like Captain America took over his life was June 26th, 2015.

The day same-sex marriage became legal by decree of the Supreme Court.

The day Steve locked himself in his apartment to be by himself for a while. He told the Avengers he needed the day off. Natasha, on the phone, sounded understanding.

He cried. He honest-to-God cried. It was . . . but Bucky was still . . . but he was so _happy . . ._

He got a text, the little _ping!_ he liked caused him to look at and focused red-rimmed eyes on the plastic device.

UNKNOWN: Captain America, how do you feel about the SC’s ruling?

STEVE: Who’s this?

UNKNOWN: My name is Abigale Gilmour, with the _Daily Star._

Steve knew he shouldn’t— _he knew he shouldn’t_ —respond. But isn’t that something Steve Rogers would do? Or was that something Captain America would do?

He didn’t _know_ , and as he debated his fingers typed out a few words and sent them before Steve really registered what he was doing.

STEVE: I think the Court’s ruling was a long time coming.

UNKNOWN: You’re not angry?

STEVE: Why would I be angry?

UNKNOWN: This means that gays can marry.

STEVE: Yeah.

UNKNOWN: You’ve never shown support towards the gay community.

STEVE: I have, in fact. I’ve done the parades and even had a conversation about it on _The Tonight Show_ a few weeks back. I support it.

UNKNOWN: Doesn’t that go against your conservative background?

Steve threw his phone against the wall and barely listened to it shatter.

Had no one _noticed?_

Had the world, with its ‘Information Age’ not noticed the . . . the _effort_ he had made, trying to be himself? Had they not understood that Steve was desperately clawing his way back to the surface?

_How could they not see?_

_How_ could _they see?_ A little voice hissed in his mind. _After all, they have no frame of reference for who Steve Rogers_ really _is. To them, you’ve been acting_ out of character.

Steve wanted to scream.

But he couldn’t. No one was there to hear him.

He went for a run, and didn’t stop running until his legs gave out and he needed to take a five minute break under the shade of an ash tree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's shorter than the others--hopefully the next (and last) chapter will be a more satisfactory length. 
> 
> Yes. The ‘anyone can say ____’ bit with the loyalty, bravery, intelligence, and ambition are, in fact, the Hogwarts House attributes. I’m a Potterhead forever. Deal with it.
> 
> Age of Ultron rubbed me the wrong way; I love how they delt with Steve's PTSD and Depression, but the entire movie was . . . blah. So I skimmed over most of it. Hope you don't mind.
> 
> And can I just say that, with the news of Civil War and the fact that not only are Crossbones and Black Panther after Bucky, but Tony is too just . .. urgh. I know Bucky killed Tony's parents, but how can he not freaking see--seriously, my headcanon for how Tony reacts will remain 'Man on the Bridge' until the movie comes out. Tony better have a good reason for ignoring the fact that Bucky was TORTURED for seventy years and was a weapon, and HYDRA the actual murderers. YOU BETTER HAVE A GOOD REASON TONY OR I WILL HATE YOUR MCU SELF FOREVER!!!!!
> 
> Rant over.
> 
> The information about Steve’s neighborhood was taken from this site:  
> http://thingswithwings.dreamwidth.org/213805.html
> 
> For the bit about Steve’s opinion on Bucky and Bucky’s life outside of Steve: http://mmouse15.tumblr.com/post/119622196523/buckybarnesss-assetandmission-its


	6. Had I Been Stronger and Braver Way Back Then

**[+1]**

*

Steve was weak.

_“Best friends since childhood.”_

Steve was broken.

_“There’s a chance you might be in the wrong business.”_

Steve had . . . hope.

_

_

_

Bucky came to him on a bright Sunday morning, July 14th.

It was a day like any other day, really. Steve was recovering from the nation throwing him a party on the 4th (Tony had texted; ‘Happy 97th Birthday, old man! to which Steve replied ‘sure. Pass me my prune juice') and was having a quiet day in. He was sitting on the couch, reading a book ( _The Martian_ by Andy Weir—Bucky would have loved it. He loved—loves? Loved—science fiction) listening to the bustle of the world outside his window when someone settled on the couch next to him, the fabric caving in with their weight.

Steve looked up from the book immediately, not having heard anyone enter.

Bucky stared back at him, his eyes ringed with dark circles, but he looked healthier than the last time Steve had seen him, and his hair was trimmed to a more manageable length. He wore a faded hoodie, battered jeans, and worn gloves.

Steve didn’t move.

Bucky didn’t move.

Finally Steve set the book carefully down and watched to see if he startled Bucky at all. Bucky didn’t even blink at the movement.

“Bucky?” Steve tried, his voice low and soothing.

Bucky’s throat worked, and it took a moment before he answered with a small; “Yeah”.

They sat in silence for a long time, neither of them moving, just taking in the sight of each other, until the shadows grew long and heaviness weighed at their eyelids.

It was a comfortable silence, though, and Steve, though he didn’t mean to, dropped off to sleep. The months of stress and anguish and fear dissolved at the sight of Bucky sitting there across from him, looking about as tired as Steve did. The last thing he heard before he was out was quiet, even breaths, and he wondered how long it had been since Bucky had felt safe enough to sleep in someone else’s company.

Steve woke up on the couch the next morning to the smell of coffee and the sound of movement. Steve sat up, looking around, desperate to find Bucky.

Bucky was in the kitchen, bent over to look inside the refrigerator. He glanced over at Steve movement and furrowed his brows.

“Do you have any apples?” he asked, his voice hoarse, as though he was not used to using it.

Steve shook his head. “I ate the last one yesterday,” he said. “I was . . . I was gonna go get more today.”

Bucky nodded. “Remember when your ma saved up enough money to get one of those good apples—the sweet kind that crunched just right?”

“Yeah,” Steve said. “Yeah, I remember, Buck.”

That had only happened twice in his life—his mother had so many other things to do, but it was the summer of his sixteenth birthday, and he wasn’t sick, hadn’t been in a month. She worked and worked and worked and got the apples. Most went into the pie she made for the evening celebration, but Steve and Bucky were allowed one to share.

They went to the fire escape as Sarah Rogers went down the street to pick up something (Steve hadn’t listened, too caught up in his prize and Bucky’s gleeful face. He wasn’t to know that his mother would die in just a few short months, the sickness she fought finally catching up to her) and the two friends scampered off.

They sat on the metal stairwell, their sticky skins slick and passed the apple back and forth. Steve looked at Bucky’s face, stretched wide in an almost comical way, laughing at something Steve had said, and felt a flutter in his stomach.

(He wouldn’t figure out what that was until later that year, when he saw Bucky making out with Marie Joy on their couch and saw nothing but Bucky, in all his glory.)

But that birthday . . . it had been the best.

Back in the present, Bucky closed the door and paced closer to Steve, watching Steve for his reaction. Steve let nothing but hope and happiness leak into his eyes, crinkle across his face, quirk at his mouth.

Bucky stopped a few feet away from Steve and brought his left hand up, clenching the glove into a fist. “I’m never gonna be him,” he said quietly.

“I know,” Steve said.

“Do you?” Bucky looked up, his gaze dark and searching. “Do you get that I’m never gonna be who I was?”

“Yeah,” Steve let out a breath and sat up straighter, not wanting to tower over Bucky but wanting _some_ height, as if that would help him channel his emotions. “Yeah, I get it.”

“How?” Bucky’s head tilted, and he looked curious. It was such a change from the blankness or the rage he had last seen that Steve almost didn’t hear the question, too caught up in _he’s feeling again._

“Because I’m different, too,” Steve said finally. “We both died, Bucky. We were both lost.”

“What do you mean?” Bucky asked. “Why were you lost?”

“Because I had no one,” Steve said simply. “You were gone, Buck, and I didn’t know who I was without you.”

Bucky ducked his head. “You’re an idiot,” he said.

“Yeah,” Steve agreed without shame. “I am.”

“So what does that mean for us?”

“I don’t know,” Steve said.

“That’s not an answer,” Bucky murmured, his hard eyes softening just slightly.

Steve closed his eyes, a chance for the ghost Bucky had become to fade. If Bucky didn’t want to be here, to deal with Steve and _his_ problems, to deal with them together, Steve was giving him a chance. He kept his breathing even, his hands relaxed where they rested on his knees. 

When he opened them, Bucky stood there with his stormy blue eyes that Steve knew better than his own locked on his.

“Steve,” Bucky probed gently.

Steve ducked his head. “It means . . . it means. Buck, can we start over?” Steve’s throat worked, trying to repress the painful cocktail of emotions building in his chest. “Can we start over and see who we are now?”

“Bucky Barnes died,” Bucky said without emotion. “He died in the war.”

“So did Steve Rogers,” Steve whispered.

Bucky closed his eyes and relaxed his face. When he opened them again, Steve didn’t have time to decipher any emotion that may have been in their depths because Bucky was striding across to Steve and pulling him up. Steve went willingly, and Bucky clung to him in a tight hold. Steve could feel Bucky shuddering in the embrace, his metal arm the only steady thing about him.

Steve returned the hug.

They stayed that way until the soft buzz of a phone broke them apart. Steve and Bucky let go of each other and said nothing as Steve picked up the phone and glanced at the screen. Text from Natasha.

NATASHA: Avengers meet today. U up?

STEVE: No, sorry.

NATASHA: What’s up?

STEVE: Bucky’s here.

He didn’t receive any more texts from her. He looked over at Bucky and found his friend looking right back at him. Steve blurted out the first thing that crossed his mind. “Why’d you come?”

Bucky’s face fell. “If you don’t want me—” he began, but Steve hastily threw up his hands.

“No, not like that,” he said. “I want you for as long as you’ll stay. I just. It’s been over a year and I haven’t heard anything and I . . . just. Are you okay?”

Bucky nodded jerkily. “I’ve been worse,” he said, and the shadow of a laugh crossed his face. He looked down at his left hand and flexed the fingers. “It’s taken me a while,” he admitted. “I was not . . . used to feeling anything,” his lips twisted into an unhappy smile. “I had to know. I had to—I had to make sure that I was someone. I . . . _wanted_ to remember.”

The fact that Bucky had needed to remember he was allowed to _want_ things hurt Steve more than he cared to admit.

“That’s good,” Steve managed. “God, Buck, that’s great. I’m just . . . I’m so relieved you’re okay.”

Bucky tilted his head. “You were concerned.”

“Yes,” Steve admitted.

Bucky made an aborted motion, almost like he wanted to wrap Steve up again.

This time it was Steve who crossed over to Bucky and slowly gave him a hug, waiting for Bucky to say no if he wanted to. Instead Bucky flung his arms around Steve and buried his face in the crook of Steve’s neck.

They stayed that way until the Avengers barged into the room, ready for a fight.

Steve and Bucky sprang apart, two knives already in Bucky’s hand. Steve jumped in the middle, between the two groups, his face hard.

“What the hell is this?” he shouted over the dim, getting the Avengers’ attention. Tony was there, as well as Natasha, Clint, Sam, and Thor. Their guns, hammer, arrows, and repulsers were all aimed at Bucky and Steve.

“You said the Winter Soldier was here,” Sam said, his careful eyes sweeping between Steve and Bucky, checking Steve for injuries and Bucky for attacks to Steve’s unprotected back.

Steve stared at him, still using his body as a shield between the two factions. “I said _Bucky_ was here, Sam, not the Winter Soldier.”

“To be fair, I _am_ the Winter Soldier,” Bucky said quietly behind Steve.

Steve glanced over his shoulder. “Just as much as I’m Captain America, Buck. Look guys,” he said, facing his team again. “Thank you for coming, I appreciate it, but I _do_ have this under control.”

“You sure?” Tony asked, the face place of his suit flipping up. “’Cause tall dark and poky over there says different.”

“I’m sure,” Steve said.

“Steve, the Winter Soldier was well trained,” Natasha said, her entire body tense. “How do you know that’s Bucky?”

Steve let out a sigh. “It’s not,” he said quietly. “Bucky died. So did Steve. We _both_ died, Nat. So whoever we are, it’s new territory from here on out.”

“What?” Clint asked, but Steve’s eyes were still trained on Natasha.

“Nat,” he said softly, “I get it. I know some of what he’s been through. I know what the Soldier is capable of. But I’m willing to deal with it all.”

“His last mission was to _kill_ you, Steve,” Natasha said, her eyes locked on Bucky’s rigid form.

“He’s had ample opportunity before this,” Steve said. “Trust me, Nat, I know what I’m doing. I haven’t been this sure about anything since 1943. I’m good, I swear.”

The weight of everyone’s gazes—the Avengers, his friends, with their questions and confusion, of Bucky’s with his doubt and his hope—all settled on Steve.

But for once, Steve didn’t feel like their stares were a burden.

“1943, huh? Whatever happened to finding Steve Rogers in the twenty-first century? Moving on?” Natasha asked, not relaxing.

Steve huffed out a laugh, a sound drenched in pale amusement. “Who was Steve Rogers without Bucky Barnes?”

Bucky made a sound behind him, one that was torn between protest and confusion.

“Look,” Steve said. “I get it. I’m blinded by who Bucky was and everything like that. I get it. But it’s been over a year and if he was gonna . . . kill me or trick me or whatever, I’m pretty sure he would have done it before now. Maybe when I was looking for him across the world with Sam. Maybe after the Ultron mess. But not now, Natasha. Not after all that. I think he’s here because he _wants_ to be.”

Natasha slowly lowered her pistols, her face blank. Steve knew her well enough by now, though, to tell that she was weighing his words against her own experiences. The other Avengers took their cue from her. Clint lowered his bow. Thor his hammer. Sam his own guns. Tony his glowing metal hand.

“I know you don’t trust him,” Steve said quietly. “But I’m gonna give this a chance, okay?”

Natasha tilted her head. “Could it be?” she murmured, her eyes flitting between Steve and Bucky. Before Steve could ask what she meant by that she was already turning to the door. The rest of the Avengers followed, looking thoroughly befuddled.

“What’s going on?” Steve heard Clint mutter. Natasha muttered something back in some language Steve couldn’t identify, and he heard Clint’s breath hitch. One by one the Avengers filed out. Tony didn’t look back, Thor followed him with a nod to Steve, Clint looking like he was deep in thought, Sam tossed Steve a concerned glance, and finally Natasha paused at the door.

She glanced over at Bucky and said something in Russian. He replied in kind. Steve waited for them to finish their conversation, politely standing half in front of Bucky like he had during the small showdown that had just occurred in his living room.

Finally Natasha looked over at Steve. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Steve Rogers.”

With that, she disappeared, leaving Steve and Bucky alone in the apartment with the small _click_ of the door shutting.

Steve glanced sideways at Bucky. “Do you know what she meant by that?”

Bucky’s lips curled in a smile. It wasn’t Bucky Barnes’ lady-killing grin from before the war, or Bucky Barnes’ fake-it-‘til-you-make-it grin from the war. It was a new grin, and Steve decided he liked this one best of all.

It was a hopeful smile.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I do.”

Perhaps Steve did, too.

He could lead his friends.

He could be there for his friends.

He could fight for his friends.

_This was who Steve Rogers was._

*

Epilogue: You Are So Much More Than the Wars You’ve Won

*

Steve was awakening.

_“The world has changed, and none of us can go back. All we can do is our best, and sometimes the best that we can do is to start over.”_

Steve was freed.

_“I’m with you ‘til the end of the line,”_

Steve was . . . returning.

_

_

_

_3 Months Later_

Steve came home late. He had had a battle earlier that day which had left him exhausted and grumpy. Then, after that, it was his turn to face the musical mayhem that was the reporters. After that nightmare circus Tony insisted that they all go out for a late dinner of Indian.

By the time Steve returned to his apartment, it was dark and nearing midnight. He blindly crossed his living room into his own room and set the shield down next to his bed. He stripped out of his uniform and tossed on some fresh clothes. Just as he was settling into his bed, his ears picked up the soft padding of feet across the floor.

“Sorry if I woke you,” Steve said softly, knowing Bucky could hear him.

“I was already awake,” Bucky said. He slid into Steve’s room and approached the bed slowly. Steve waited for Bucky to come, not moving from his position.

Bucky stopped at the end of the bed and stood there, just looking at Steve.

“Did you need something?” Steve asked after a few minutes had passed and all Bucky had done was stand there looking at Steve.

It was something the new Bucky did—the new Bucky liked watching Steve, liked being still where the old one was all energy and babble. Steve found he did not mind this  
change—he loved this new Bucky just as much as he loved the old one.

“No,” Bucky said. “I just remembered something today.”

Steve nodded. “Wanna talk about it?”

“No,” Bucky said. “I just . . . who was Bucky, to you?”

“My best friend,” Steve said truthfully.

Bucky tilted his head considering. “Was that all?”

Steve didn’t understand where this was going. “I don’t know whatcha mean, Buck.”

“You keep giving me the same glances you gave him, and I know what those glances mean,” Bucky said.

Steve forced the panic that bubbled in his chest down. “What?”

That’s when Bucky leaned across the bed and kissed him.

Steve pulled back almost immediately. “What’re you doing?”

“Kissing you,” Bucky said softly. “Do you mind?”

“Is this what you want?” Steve asked, not answering the question.

Bucky’s lips twitched. Steve could see them in the faint light coming from the window. “Yeah. It’s . . . it was something he wanted. The old Bucky. But this is something I want, too.”

Then he kissed Steve again.

This time Steve kissed back.

When they pulled away, Steve looked at Bucky and Bucky looked at Steve. “Hello,” Steve said, trying not to let his lips twitch upwards. He held out his hand invitingly. “I’m Steve Rogers. ‘S nice to meet you.”

“Bucky Barnes,” Bucky said and shook the proffered hand. “Same.”

Steve smiled.

This, he thought, was a soldier returning from the war after far too long.

This was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the end. I really enjoyed writing, so I hope you enjoyed reading. Comments and kudos are welcome, and I ALWAYS love having feedback. I hope to continue improving my writing, and your feedback on my characterization and style give me so much to work with.
> 
> I hope I gave this story the ending it deserved. You all have been amazing, and I hope I haven't let you down. You all have given me such incredible feedback and encouragement, and it means so much to me. Thank you for reading.
> 
> The Martian, by the way, is a fantastic book. It's being turned into a movie with Sebastian Stan, coming out in October of this year. But I read the book before I heard that news, and let me tell you the book is just . . . incredible. Absolutely incredible. And so freaking funny. Literally, it had me in stiches several times.
> 
> This fic was inspired by my need to write a character study of Steve. He’s an interesting character and one, I think, people  
> get wrong a lot. I hope I did him (and the rest of the Marvel characters) justice. Feel free to let me know where I haven't.
> 
> A few more posts that helped me write:
> 
> http://castielcampbell.tumblr.com/post/120448905194/and-that-makes-him-a-true-hero-in-my-heart
> 
> http://fireboltinsky4.tumblr.com/post/120574266131/could-you-talk-a-little-bit-about-the-but-i-knew


End file.
